


Flowerbed

by silver_fish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Soulmate AU, but it has a happy ending, mostly angsty, set during battle of hogwarts to post-hogwarts, warnings for suicidal characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/pseuds/silver_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy used to fear the lines she didn't draw on her arms, but now it's the only thing keeping her alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowerbed

**Author's Note:**

> this fic features background mentioned/implied harry x ginny and ron x hermione, but it's nothing really big, hence why i didn't tag it.
> 
> i hope you enjoy! please leave comments and/or kudos at the end! c:

Pansy used to think the future was going to be golden. That, one day, she would be seventeen and love herself enough to rule the world. That she would be pretty enough to get what she wanted with a snap of her fingers and anybody would fall to their knees before her, just because she needed to be pleased.

That was until she began to see the drawings on her skin. Dark ink against a pale complexion, enough to make her fingers shake, to make her believe she was going crazy. She asked her mother when she first noticed it, nine years old with terror in her eyes, and her mother, ever optimistic, told her she was special, but she certainly didn’t feel like it.

Then, she’s eleven and she’s at Hogwarts, friends already made before she could even introduce herself, reputation set in nearly concrete stone. She’s allowed to be snide, allowed to boast and to talk herself up and appreciate herself and the things other people will do for her, because her name is Parkinson and she’s _allowed_ , dammit.

But the drawings are still there. Abstract doodles of nothing, little flowers as if her skin is a garden bed, and so she hides it because, surely, if it were normal, it would not be enough to make her special.

She grows terrified of her own skin. She keeps her head down, tries not to look at herself. She screams and she scrapes and she tries to force it off, but the ink isn’t hers, and she can only hope.

Eventually, she learns how to use magic to cover it up, to put a glamour over her own skin, as if she has something to hide and she wonders that if she ever has to take the Dark Mark, will the artist see the disgusting tattoo on their forearm as well?

But the thing about the ink is that it’s beautiful. It should feel like a gift, like some sort of luxury, a picture drawn just for her, always for her. And yet it feels like a curse, because there’s someone out there pulling at the strings of her fate, and the future doesn’t always taste so sweet anymore.

The world grows darker, the drawing become less. Pansy’s hands shake and her lips tremble and she cries out for a family that is dying. She hears her father’s last words to her at the train station before she leaves for her final year at Hogwarts. She’s seventeen and the world is shifting on its axis, and he says, “We love you no matter what.” Two months after the train pulls into Hogsmeade station, Snape holds a conference with her and expresses his sympathy, before locking her in the Hospital Wing for the night.

Madam Pomfrey shows her sympathy. She understands, she says, and Pansy wonders how it’s really fair, but she sits and she takes it, and when she’s offered dreamless sleep, she downs the potion without a second thought.

After that first visit, she comes back every Sunday.

“My mother wants me to come home,” she says softly two weeks later, but she won’t meet Pomfrey’s eyes because she knows better, because she loves her mother and she knows Pomfrey can tell, but maybe the only thing that’s making her want to return at all is the chances. Maybe, if she goes back, they’ll find her. Maybe, if she goes back, she’ll get to see her father again.

“Don't forget why you’re here,” is all Madam Pomfrey offers before she turns around and procures a vial of dreamless sleep for Pansy to take that night, because six out of seven nights in a week she wakes in a cold sweat.

The next morning, feeling dead already, she doesn’t attend class. It feels like too much. She’s sick, she says, and she knows Madam Pomfrey will attest to it, because it isn’t really a lie, not technically, and yet.

Another week has her turning herself into the Hospital Wing for a night.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she says, steady even though every part of her thinks she should be quivering, terrified of the monster that’s her own mind. “I want it to end. I want to go home so that they find me and they kill me. I miss my father. My mother has no soul left. I have no more family.”

Madam Pomfrey merely shakes her head. “You’ll find your housemates will be family, too, particularly in these times of hardship.”

Pansy doesn’t respond. She stares down at her palm, at the fading lines of a beautiful rose and snaps her head up sharply. She can’t die now, not when she’s never even met her artist.

“Do you have any ink?” she asks instead, and Pomfrey considers her for a moment before nodding and bustling away to retrieve the requested items.

She brings parchment along with a quill and inkwell, then heads to her office, understanding that Pansy has handed herself in because, while some part of her wants to die, she’s just not ready to let go yet.

Pansy sets the parchment aside and takes the quill and inkwell, hands shaking. She jumps at the feeling of the tip of it against her skin, then takes a deep breath and writes across her forearm, _Hello?_

She counts the seconds. After ten, she's convinced that she’s insane. That the drawings don’t mean anything. That there really is no artist on the other side.

And then, there, beneath her own elegant hand, _I thought you'd never say anything._

Pansy blinks, partly surprised and, perhaps inappropriately, a smidgen angry.

_You knew?_

_I didn't want to try and communicate until you were ready._

And, really, it’s fair, because whoever this artist is is supposed to be her . . . other half or whatever.

She smiles slightly and leans against the pillows.

_Well, thanks, then._

More relaxed, she wonders if the other finds the words as comforting as she does.

_You’re welcome. Good night._

She hopes they do.

* * *

Two weeks before Christmas, Pansy begins to think that it’s going to be easier. Maybe the future won’t be so bad, she thinks. Maybe the gold she used to dream of is actually the light at the end of darkness, the reason why Potter’s friends keep fighting even though he’s gone.

“Do you think it was worth it?” Pansy asks Draco, when they’re alone in the common room at some ungodly morning hour, his eyes stormy and troubled grey.

He sees her gaze on his arm, then sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t like to think about the alternative. My father’s safe where he is, but Mother... I think it’s enough to keep her safe.”

Pansy bites her lip. “I sometimes think he should have taken the Mark,” he whispers, and it feels like she’s breathing out toxins with the harsh words. “It would have saved him, you know?”

Draco searches her eyes. “Or it could have killed him from the inside out. What’s really better? Empty existence or none at all?”

Pansy turns away, ashamed of the way her eyes water. “What are we?”

Draco makes an odd noise, somewhere between a humourless laugh and a sob, and he says, “We’re fucked, Pansy.”

“Well, of course we are, idiot.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes her playfully, and it suddenly feels like they’re kids again, set up by their parents, assumed to be married someday, probably. For a moment, they’re small, noses wrinkled up at the very thought of marriage, best friends anyway, carefree.

Pansy’s chest hurts suddenly and she takes a deep, gulping breath, her entire body stiff.

“Pansy?” Draco’s hand brushes her arm softly, his entire body crunched down in immediate concern.

And then she—breaks.

The tears are there before she can stop them, her hands shaking into her arms, her shoulders hunched against an onslaught of sobs.

“This is so—stupid,” she hisses, but she sounds weak and broken and maybe she’s not even herself anymore.

Draco starts, then hesitantly and rather awkwardly pats her shoulder.

“Some part of me thought that maybe if I—if I got through this all, it’d be okay.” She inhales deeply through her nose, then laughs slightly, but there’s nothing funny about it, nothing to laugh at but how much of a joke her life is becoming, how she’s afraid of herself when she used to think that she would grow up and, one day, everybody else would fear her.

“Nobody knows that, Pans,” Draco says, and he doesn’t know what to say, but, then, neither does Pansy, not really.

“But wouldn’t it be nice if we did?” Pansy shakes her head. “If we could just—move past this all? Just leave? Save ourselves?”

“There’s no point in considering it. We can't,” Draco says flatly.

“We can't,” Pansy agrees, wiping at her eyes.

Draco runs his fingers over his Dark Mark absently. It hurts him sometimes, Pansy thinks, physically, and the simple thought of why it exists hurts him the rest of the time.

“I think it’s going to get better,” he says quietly, but his voice is dull, and Pansy’s not even sure if he believes the words he’s said.

She thinks about what's waiting for her on the other side, flowers blooming from ink on someone else’s skin and amends that she hasn’t made yet.

She suddenly feels very aware of each breath she takes. Only moments ago, they’d felt infinite, but now the crushing weight of her own mortality makes it difficult to squeeze each one out.

“I hope you’re right,” she says, and she doesn’t know if she’s ever meant anything more in her life.

* * *

_Are you okay?_

Pansy doesn’t know why she writes it. Since that first night in the hospital wing, she’s written various hellos from time to time, but they haven’t attempted a full conversation. Just knowing whoever it was was there was enough for Pansy, at least.

 _From time to time,_ comes the reply, thought out after a few minutes.

_Are you in danger?_

Pansy’s chest is tight as she writes the words. They all are, of course, but, then, some people more than others. She holds her breath.

_If you look at it the right way._

Pansy huffs. Even her situation, if looked at the right way, is dangerous. It’s the first week of Christmas break, and she’s been forced to stay at school because she no longer has a home to return to.

 _I want to meet you_ , she writes out between her flying emotions.

 _You can’t yet,_ is a quick response, but the scrawl is untidy, rushed, cut off very suddenly at the end.

She doesn’t try and ask why.

* * *

When Draco comes back from holidays, he seems shaken.

“They’re keeping prisoners down there,” he tells her, hands clammy and eyes alight with disgust. “People we _know_. Ollivander. He made our wands, Pansy. And now he’s sitting captive in my _basement_.” He inhales sharply, then shakes his head. “Some of Potter’s friends. Our classmates. Sixteen and seventeen-year-old kids. That could be us, if things had been any different. If Potter was our friend, if he’d accepted my offer in first year.” He shudders slightly, and Pansy offers him a hand to hold.

“Are you okay?” she asks under her breath, because they can’t afford to care that much.

“No,” he says just as softly. “I wish my father knew what the hell he was doing. I wish my mother wasn’t so afraid. I wish _I_ wasn’t so afraid.”

“I get it,” she offers with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I wish my father had taken the Mark. I wish my mother would stop running. I wish I could go home again. I wish a lot of things. But this is how it is, you know? Maybe all we can hope is it’ll teach us a really good fucking lesson.”

He taps his fingers against the arm of the couch. “Still, it’s never really going to end for us, is it?”

Pansy thinks, sometimes, that they can end themselves.

“No,” she says, heart beating fast. “Probably not.”

And he nods, like he’s accepted it, but Pansy’s chest and throat ache, and she already misses her old self.

* * *

Halfway through February, Daphne goes to Hogsmeade and doesn’t come back.

Pansy’s not sure why it stings. A friend, a roommate, a fling, even, a couple times over the years, but nothing really big. It’s not as if she’s dead, and she’s barely gone for good. She left because she’s seventeen and she can’t stand to be here anymore, and it’s fair. Almost.

She leaves Astoria behind, as if their bond as sisters means nothing. Slytherins are loyal, some say, but, then, self-preservation is important, too.

People whisper about it for a while, wondering why they hadn’t thought of it first. It was too easy, almost. If someone wants to run, they’re going to run.

Some of the students wonder how she got away. Some say she Apparated. Others suggest she made a portkey. More, still, think she met up with someone and they just... left.

Pansy doesn’t want to guess. She sees as stricter policies are placed over the students, as if they aren’t within their rights to run. She watches as every student who leaves the castle are searched, as every student is banned from leaving the grounds. They don’t care about _rights_. They torture students sometimes, Muggle-borns and those who stand up for them. Those who pledged allegiance to Dumbledore try and fight back, screaming and shouting that Hogwarts wasn’t meant to be like this. And they’re right. Of course they’re right. Because as soon as one student is hurt, the entire student body feels it, too.

It’s a strange kind of ache.

Pansy has never really _cared_. Her classmates have always just _been_ there. Sometimes an annoying distraction, an obstacle. Sometimes more of an advantage, someone to steal knowledge from and to leave a good impression on. More than anything, she chose not to care, because she never really would need to.

She knows, now, of course, that that was barely legitimate. She’s afraid, now, of the things that have descended upon them. Once, she’d thought herself superior, because that was easy, because it was all she _knew_ , but now as she stares out at a solemn student body, dead eyes and shaky hands, she knows better. Humanity isn’t really measured in blood or influence. It’s more like the exchanged glance when something goes wrong, the shared feeling of dread, a sudden desire to help when someone else has fallen. They’re brothers and sisters not because they are Pureblooded or housemates with strong family names. Such a bond is the kind that is forged unbeknownst to its victims, a sort of connection beneath the ground, different threads and paths, a thousand different walks of life. They all come from somewhere else, but now they’re in the same place, and they’re dying.

Maybe she’s known all this time. Maybe it’s the harsh realization of _why_ her father died that makes it so hard to swallow. Or maybe she’s just changed, a new direction of the wind, fall unto spring, bigger than her body.

Maybe it’s just the way life is.

Pansy doesn’t blame Daphne. She wants to run too.

But she understands, now, what family is. And she’s going to do what she can to keep hers safe.

* * *

She tries to keep to the shadows as best as she can, but it’s ridiculously hard to not step up and scream that she’s doing all she _can_. Madam Pomfrey shakes her head when she asks for Dreamless Sleep on a Wednesday, so she stays up all night instead and tries to cry, but she’s not sure she knows how to anymore.

There’s only so much she can do. She doesn’t attend class for a week. Draco has a break down and throws up after he receives a letter from his mother. They stay up into disgusting hours of the night and what they both need is to _talk_ , but they never do, instead just enjoying each other’s company because maybe nobody else really understands.

But, then, on the third day of March, Pansy bumps into a sixth year girl in the washroom, and she’s huddled against a wall, shivering.

And Pansy doesn’t think about it, because it doesn’t matter. She’s sees red hair and she doesn’t care and her mind screams bloodtraitor, but her heart pounds in her chest and she _reaches out_.

Ginny Weasley holds her hand like a lifeline for half an hour before her shuddering stops and she offers Pansy this absolutely radiant smile that says she doesn’t care either.

“Thanks,” she says, and her voice is hoarse, but it’s soft, too.

“I understand what’s happening,” Pansy offers, frowning. “I mean, not entirely. But I understand, a bit.”

Ginny considers her for a moment. They’re sitting on the dirty floor of a _bathroom_ , Ginny Weasley, fiery, red-haired bloodtraitor and Pansy Parkinson, filthy rich and respected Pureblood, talking as if they’ve known each other all this time. And they have, Pansy thinks, but knowing someone doesn’t really mean you know them.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Ginny tells her after a moment, and her eyes soften with genuine sympathy.

“Me too,” Pansy mutters, but she smiles slightly. “But we’re all going to lose things. I’ve had time.”

“But you still hurt from it, don’t you?” Ginny presses, and her hand still sits in Pansy’s, white-knuckled and sweaty, and nothing about this is _pretty_ , but it’s realistic. And maybe it’s not _golden_ , but it’s not too bad, because gold is only material, after all.

“Sure. We all hurt from things. You’re worried about your brother, right? Potter and Granger and your friends?”

“It’s hard not to be. They have my friends, you know? I don’t know where Ron and Harry and Hermione are. Nobody really does. We’re hanging on to this hope that, wherever they are, they’re working fast enough to save us sooner rather than later.”

Pansy stares up at the ceiling. “I have it better than you,” she says, and it’s so flat that she’s not sure if she could have said it with any emotion anyway.

“No.” Ginny rubs at her nose. “You really don’t.”

Maybe it’s about perspective, Pansy thinks, but, then, maybe it’s not.

“Listen,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else there is to. “I just . . . I’m starting to understand that we share a common enemy here. And I want you to know that I’m willing to fight against them, if it comes down to it. But . . . I want to keep myself and my family safe, if it comes down to a choice like that.”

Ginny searches her eyes for a moment, then nods slowly. “I get it.” She shrugs. “We need the interhouse community more than ever, now. And, not to mention, we don’t really have any _actual_ sides to pick.”

“So you understand what I’m saying.”

“Doesn’t mean I agree with it, though.”

Pansy can’t help the twitch of her mouth. “Then I suppose we get each other.”

And, from that moment on, it seems like there’s nothing that can make them not trust each other, even for a second.

* * *

“This is stupid,” Draco hisses.

Pansy swallows back the comment that rises in response. Something childish, she’s sure. A _No, you are,_ or a _Who the fuck cares?_ but she doesn’t, because she’s trying to be gentle with him. He’s fragile, these days; she is, too.

“I just want a chance,” she says instead, and she thinks his sharp glance isn’t _really_ about the things she’s said wrong. He wants that, to blame her, but he can’t, because there’s nobody let to blame, if she lets herself think about it.

“A chance,” he says flatly, as if the words are a new food, one he doesn’t have the capacity to care about the taste of anymore. “So why like this?”

“Talking makes it better. It’s like giving someone else your burden.”

“And drinking is like shrugging that burden off until you wake up in the morning,” he shoots back, scowling. “What’s the difference?”

“Firewhisky never leaves the burden away forever,” she reminds him, and she tries not to sound _wistful_ or anything, but he looks away, and she wonders when she got so bad at hiding her emotions.

“Yeah, whatever.” He shuffles his feet. “So, what? We wait for Weaslette to show up and then what do we do? Help with their _war effort?_ I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I wear the symbol for their _enemy_ , Pansy.”

“They aren’t going to force us to take down You-Know-Who.” Pansy rolls her eyes. “I don’t _care_ about that anymore. As far as I’m concerned, the only side I have to take is my own, and I’ll be damned if I don’t. We’re here to reach out and make sure nobody else winds up like Daphne, running away rather than staying behind for her fucking _family_.”

“My family is outside this castle,” Draco says quietly. “And they’re suffering. What about your mother, Pans?”

“What about you?” She takes a deep breath. “What about Blaise and Vince and Greg and Millicent and Tracey and Theo and Astoria and that girl in her second year you helped yesterday after her friend was tortured?”

He doesn’t say anything else. His breaths billow out in front of him, harsh and warm against the biting cold of the March morning and Pansy wonders if he’s thinking about it, or if he’s doing everything he can to shut it out.

A tree rustles behind her and she whirls around, wand at the ready, before seeing Ginny and Longbottom appear from beneath the green.

She doesn’t lower her wand.

“Prove who you are,” she insists, and Ginny rolls her eyes.

“I’m Ginny and the first time we met you shouted at me for hexing Malfoy,” she says, a grin on her face. “Sorry about that, but not _really_.”

“Charming,” Draco mutters, and he scowls again.

Longbottom doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then he says, “I don’t think you know anything about me.”

“I don’t think you’re fake,” Pansy says, twirling her wand in her hand. “I’m sure Ginny wouldn’t lead a Death Eater to me. Especially when I already have one of my own.”

It takes only a count of three, and then Draco’s pushed her down, fire blazing in his grey eyes, and he’s _angry_ , angry like she’s never seen him before. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, pulling out his wand and holding it to her throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You think this is _easy_ for me, don’t you? You think it’s some fucking _game_? That I can just wash it off when the war’s over? That I’m going to _laugh_ about, three years from now, because _my_ father didn’t _die_ over this stupid _fucking mark?_ ”

She considers him for a moment. “Don’t talk about my father,” she says softly. “He’s a better man than yours.”

Draco sneers at her, and she hasn’t seen him make _that_ face in—what, two years? Three?

“ _Was_ ,” he spits. “He _was_ a better man. But now he’s _dead_ , because he wasn’t _smart enough_ to realize that his stupid _pride_ was going to fuck his entire family over!”

Ginny and Longbottom look between them awkwardly, ever the Gryffindors, but Pansy hasn’t seen Draco look so _alive_ in Merlin knows how long, and she’s always been one to push things until they’re broken, after all.

“Are you sure you don’t mean _your_ dad, hmm?” she asks innocently, pushing away Draco’s shaking wand and sitting up to her full height. “Good old _Lucius_ , who put his own family fortune before his own _son_? Who tried to run but was too much of a coward to stick up from himself when he was finally confronted? When he let his _own son_ be hurt inside his home because he thought maybe, just maybe, his good name was worth more than the one he’s passing it to?”

“Don’t you— Don't—” He can’t talk around his own breathing, ragged and broken and _defeated_ , so he doesn’t try again.

And he _cries_.

The last time Pansy saw Draco cry, they were seven. It was over something stupid, she thinks now, over some expensive toy of his that she broke, and Narcissa had come to comfort him, but Lucius had pushed down on him instead, and said that Malfoys were _strong_ , and Malfoys didn’t cry, and when Draco howled that maybe he wasn’t a Malfoy, then, Lucius had slapped him. Hard enough for the shock to make the tears stop coming, and then they came again. Pansy didn’t see Lucius again that day, and Narcissa told her that it had never happened before, but, then, she doesn’t know. Sometimes she wonders if anything happened after that. If, maybe, despite his shame, Lucius found it easier to make his son cold to the outside by making him strong on the inside.

But, then, it doesn’t matter now. Because they’re here, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where they aren’t supposed to be, but they know how to sneak past Filch and there are things to be said, things to figure out. How to save thousands of people and how to bring back a place that’s supposed to be home and how to forget that Draco’s basement is a prison cell to people they know and she hasn’t seen writing on her skin in over eight weeks and the world is ending, but some people don’t even know it.

“We’re going to bridge the gaps between the houses,” she whispers, not looking at Ginny or Longbottom, but in concern at Draco, a hand cradling his shoulder as if it’s not her fault he’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny stumbles out. “I— _we_ didn’t—”

“Bad timing,” Pansy says with a shrug. “But that’s my fault. We came here to talk, so let’s talk.”

“Right,” Ginny mutters, still looking distinctly stunned. “Right. Talk.”

They sit on the ground and pretend it’s not as dirty and disgusting as it is, and the talk. Pansy holds Draco’s hand, and he eventually comes back to himself, and he talks too, and they draw lines between students and professors and they plan and they plan and they _plan_ , and it’s going to hold them together until June, they think, because all they need is _time_.

And time is, truly, Pansy thinks, the greatest gift the world can offer.

* * *

There are Slytherins who here her whispered remarks about people and jump on them, make friendships where they see things that will help them. Professors that have been at the school before this year marvel at the sudden lack of fights amongst some students and makes plans of their own, set up students with similar aptitudes for their subjects, with glaringly similar interests, some that balance each other out, where one person bickers and complains and the other just _nods_ , as if they care, and the other takes it with the satisfaction of feeling listened to. And it's absolutely, one hundred percent, a  _brilliant_ experience to watch something unfold in front of her.

She thinks that Draco is colder towards her in the couple weeks that follow. Which is _fine_ , really, because she knows his fears and his secrets and he’s always been a people-pleaser but he’s never been pleased with showing anything but confidence in front of people. She’d always been the exception, really. She wonders, sometimes, if she always will be or not.

A couple weeks later, Pansy brings Ginny with her to the hospital wing, and they have tea with Madam Pomfrey. It’s nice, because they don’t talk about the war or the dozens of kids that come into this part of the castle every week because they’re afraid to sleep in their own beds or because someone they were supposed to respect tortured them for even daring to _suggest_ that maybe the Dark Lord _isn’t_ right.

They tell her about how they’re planning to strengthen interhouse relationships, and she expresses concern but agrees that, really, it’s the best thing to do. She gives Pany a sad look and she says that she’s glad that Pansy has taken such an awful experience and let it teach her something, but Pansy can’t reply because the lesson isn’t _worth it_ , and she wonders, sometimes, if anything is worth it at all.

Ginny offers her a smile and then they leave, and there’s nothing else _to it_ , really. It’s just . . . something else. Everything in life is something, she thinks, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to move past each one.

“Do you miss your friends?” Ginny asks her as they make their way to the library, which Pansy thinks is probably one of the only places left in the castle that doesn’t feel overrun with darkness.

“What do you mean? My friends are all still here.” Pansy rolls her eyes a bit, but she doesn’t meet Ginny’s eyes.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Pansy stares at her feet.

“I know,” she says.

As they enter the library, Ginny directs her to a table in the corner, voice lowering. “I sometimes wonder if they’ve just left. If Dean and Luna are ever going to come back. It’s really . . . it’s terrifying.” She twiddles her thumbs. “But I think you understand.”

Pansy stares at her forearm.

“Draco wanted to be a Death Eater,” she whispers, and she’s mildly horrified for revealing something about her best friend that he would never, ever admit to himself, even. “He wanted to follow his father’s footsteps. His father wanted that, too. But Lucius . . . I don’t think he’s ever been the man Draco’s thought he was. I think . . . I think that, that high up in the social hierarchy, Draco dealt with so much from his father. Things my parents would have never said or done. Things that would have never crossed your parents’ minds. Sometimes I can’t _find_ my best friend anymore, and so I keep _pushing_ him, because nobody can live like that, can they? Shut off like that?”

Ginny surveys her silently. “You’re less of a Slytherin than I thought,” she remarks, but she’s grinning.

“Well, it’s just that I understand the difference between being closed off and cool for political or social gain and being open when things go wrong.” Pansy makes a face. “It doesn’t mean I _like_ to talk, but . . . sometimes you need to.”

“Hey, I get it.” Ginny shrugs. “I used to talk to Luna when things felt off. She’s the weirdest person I know, so it must be some kind of twisted irony that she always knew _exactly_ what to say. She used to do small stuff for her friends when we were under the weather, you know? She used to draw us things just because she knew we would smile when she gave it to us.”

“Was she a good artist, then?” Pansy fiddles with her robes.

“Yeah, definitely. Weird, but creative, you know?” Ginny narrows her eyes at her. “But why are you asking?”

“I have a soulmate,” Pansy blurts before she can even register the words in her mind.

“A soulmate?” Ginny raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?”

“ _No_.” Pansy runs a hand through her hair. “I’m serious. And whoever they are is a talented artist. They draw—they _drew_ on their arms all the time, and the magic is that everything they write on their skin shows up on _mine_. It’s been almost three months since I’ve seen anything from them. We would use it to communicate for a bit at the start of the year. Whoever they are, they’re the only reason I’m still . . .” She shakes her head, then locks her gaze on Ginny’s. “They’re the only reason I didn’t kill myself after my father died,” she says, and it’s a miracle, really, that her voice doesn’t shake.

Ginny looks thoughtful. “Luna drew on her arms all the time. You don’t think . . . ?”

“They stopped replying to my writing after Christmas. She’s probably at Malfoy Manor if they took her captive because she’s friends with Potter, so—”

“ _Wait_. You’re saying they’re holding people captive at _Malfoy’s_ house?”

“Where else would they keep them?” she says impatiently. “The Dark Lord is _living_ there.”

Ginny blinks, then swallows back whatever emotion she’s feeling. “That’s . . .”

“Twisted. Revolted. I _know_.” Pansy huffs. “But if it’s _Luna_ who’s been drawing all over my arms for the past ten years, then I can ask Draco if he’ll talk to her. Maybe he can get them out, but it seems like too much to ask if I want him to live.” She exhales deeply. “I don’t know what I was _expecting_. Some sort of mysterious stranger, I guess. Somebody who I didn’t know. Someone I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to _meet_ , not some _Ravenclaw_ kid who I used to _bully_.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure she doesn’t hold that against you,” Ginny says dryly.

Pansy shakes her head. “I don’t think you get it. This is, like, something I’ve dreaded my entire life. But I want to meet whoever it is, and I _asked_ them, once, and they said that wasn’t possible right now, so _maybe_ —”

“Don’t get too excited about it,” Ginny says darkly. “She’s still a prisoner of war at the moment.”

“But maybe I can _help her_!”

“Yeah? And who’s gonna help _you_ when they try and kill you for it?” Ginny retorts.

Pansy blinks, then sits back. She wants to laugh, suddenly, at it all, but instead her eyes swim with unwelcome tears.

“Nobody,” she mutters, bitter, defeated. “Nobody would be able to.”

Ginny offers her a pitying smile. “It’s not the end of the world. Help will come, eventually. The war can’t last forever.”

“Always the optimist, aren’t you?” Pansy tries for a weak grin. “It doesn’t always _feel_ like it’s going to end.”

“I’m not an optimist.” Ginny jabs at her side with an elbow. “I’m a _realist_.”

Pansy rubs at her forearms. “Yeah, well, everyone’s a realist if you ask them.”

Ginny thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, I suppose, but that doesn’t stop me from being”—she frowns for a second—“um— _realer_.”

Pansy shakes her head, not quite able to help the fond smile on her face. But, then, maybe it’s okay if the war lasts forever. Because it’s _life_ , she reasons, and she’s not ready to die yet, so she won’t. Maybe Luna Lovegood, Ravenclaw weirdo, is her soulmate, and maybe it’s just some silly trick of fate that life is going to wind up like _this_ , but it _has_ , and she’s going to have to take it as it comes.

So that’s what she’s going to do. Take it as it comes.

* * *

She tells Draco everything. It comes out like a waterfall after a rainstorm, fast and furious and tears splash at her cheeks a couple of times, but she’s quick to wipe them away and continue on. And he sits and takes it, then hugs her and calls her a name, but they’re okay. Really.

They’re okay.

He promises to find out what he can about the prisoners at Malfoy Manor, but he warns her it won’t be much.

“I _do_ value my life, you know,” he says, and she understands, because she’s starting to value hers, too.

So when he comes back after their spring break, he tells _her_ everything.

He tells her about how Potter rescued them, about how Potter took his wand and he doesn’t _really_ know if he’s upset about it or not, because some part of him wants to see the Dark Lord dead, but another part of him knows his and Potter’s ideals really, really don’t match up.

And then he hesitates, and Pansy _prods_ , because she needs to know. She needs to, she thinks, not because of some higher cosmic force, but because if she doesn’t know, she’s going to wonder for a lot longer, and she’s _sick_ of asking questions.

“She knew the whole time,” he eventually tells her, not meeting her eyes, his voice only just a whisper. “That it was you. That the marks she made on her skin showed up on yours. She knew it was you, and she knew you didn’t know.”

Pansy inhales deeply. “But it’s her? It’s always been her?”

Draco nods. “If her word is to be trusted, of course.”

Every conversation they ever had across their skin comes back to Pansy and she says, “I knew she knew. She told me. She said . . . she said she never approached me because I wasn’t ready. Does this mean that she thinks I’m ready, then?”

“She’s not _my_ soulmate,” Draco says, scoffing. “Listen, I think things are going to turn around. Not for us, but for everyone else here. Weasley, Potter, and Granger have to have a _plan_. We don’t know where they are. They have to be doing _something_ worthwhile.”

Pansy nods absently. His hope seems oddly misplaced, with the Dark Mark on his arm, but his eyes are brighter than they’ve been in years.

“Ginny didn’t come back,” she remarks, and she’s not upset about it, because she still has tea with Madam Pomfrey once a week, and Draco is opening up again, and some of her housemates have reached out at her suggestions in earlier months, and interhouse communication may be weaker than ever, but it’s stronger than it’s been all year, and, well.

She still worries.

“Well, they know Weasley’s with Potter now, don’t they?” Draco frowns. “Hiding, then?”

“I guess.” She lets out a deep sigh. “Still, I hope she’s okay.”

Draco considers her, then his gaze softens. “You know, if someone had said at the start of the year that you’d be as close to one of the Weasels as you are to me, I would have thought they were mad.”

“She’s nice. And, well, it’s not like I can exactly go crawling to the Dark Lord now, can I?”

“I suppose not,” he murmurs. “Be careful, though.”

She brushes her hair out of her and offers him a small smile. “When aren’t I?”

He rolls his eyes and then stands up. “I’m going to bed. Try not to think about it all so much.”

She frowns a little. “It’s hard not to.”

“It’s almost June,” he reminds her. “And then we can get out of here. We can go anywhere. We could go to France or— _Italy_. Goodness, we could go to _Canada_ , if you want.”

She snorts. “Well, if you want that, why not?”

He shakes his head, but smiles fondly. “Just a few more months,” he assures her, and then he leaves.

And she doesn’t know how long she stares at the wall for, but it feels like an eternity. Maybe she thinks about it all, or maybe she doesn’t, but by the time she walks up in the morning, still on the couch in the Slytherin common room, she doesn’t even remember.

She’s not sure if forgetting makes it better or worse.

* * *

She remembers her promise to Ginny, her promise to herself. That she’s not _choosing_ a side, because she only cares about herself.

And when she’s offered a chance at saving herself, of course she’s going to take it.

But it’s after the entire thing is cleaned up. After she’s standing in the Great Hall, shaking as Potter’s friends turn their wands on her, as if she hasn’t _helped_ them through this year, as if she isn’t the reason why nobody’s cursed a Slytherin student since February.

And then she’s the reason why the entire student body turns against the Slytherins again in the end.

As they’re ushered from the room, though, she catches Ginny’s eye, and the other girl nods, because she understands, and, really, what’s wrong with being afraid?

But, in the end, her housemates look at her with shame. They wonder why someone who worked so hard to fix things could turn it all around with just a few words. She’s seventeen, she wants to scream at them. Terrified, because her father rejected the Dark Lord and paid for it with his life, and now that she’s _finally_ figuring out that maybe, maybe life _is_ worth living, she doesn’t want to follow him.

Maybe, just maybe, her life is worth more than her pride.

She doesn’t go back to the Great Hall after Voldemort falls. She’s not sure if she would be allowed, or if anybody would want her to. But they don’t stop the Slytherins from leaving the dungeons, so she goes out by the lake and hopes nobody sees her. She’s sick of hiding, but she knows how to _do_ that.

She wonders, for just a moment, who else she’s let down. Where her mother is. If she’ll get through the Death Eater trials without penalty because she doesn’t have a Dark Mark. She wonders a lot of things, and then somebody behind her says:

“They shouldn’t push you away.”

She turns around, and there’s Ginny and . . .

And _Luna_ , an odd, calculating look in her eyes. She offers Pansy a miniscule smile, but it’s enough. It’s enough.

“They didn’t,” Pansy says to Ginny, not meeting either of the girls’ eyes. “I pushed myself away. So they couldn’t do it first.”

Ginny raises an eyebrow. “Then how do you know they would?”

“Because it’s easier to blame someone for speaking out against a popular opinion?” Pansy suggests wryly.

“I don’t think you were wrong,” Luna tells her seriously. “Sometimes people are afraid.”

Pansy thinks her hands should be shaking, but she’s eerily calm as she faces Luna. “Yet I tried to sacrifice another person because I didn’t want to die. That’s not fair, is it?”

“Nothing is really fair anymore,” Ginny says, shrugging. “Unfortunate part of war, really.”

“I don’t want to end up like my father,” Pansy whispers.

Ginny nods. “I know. You told me, in the very beginning. I didn’t forget. Not everybody’s going to understand, but those of us who matter will.”

“I still need to say sorry, at the very least.”

Ginny laughs. “Well, sure. Nobody can stop you from that. And, anyway, they can’t do anything to you. If anything, you _helped_ our war effort, so they aren’t going to make you stand trial, right? You aren’t a Death Eater.”

“My best friend is,” Pansy points out, as if it’s necessary.

“Doesn’t matter. If they put you in front of a court, I’ll make sure they know you didn’t do anything wrong,” Ginny says fiercely. “Because you _didn’t_. So stop blaming yourself.”

Pansy glances down at her feet. “My not blaming myself won’t make other people not blame me.”

“It’ll be easier to deal with,” Ginny advises. “People like to talk. And you know who’s going to understand best what you’re going through? _Harry_. He’s not going to blame you because you were afraid. We’ve all been afraid before.”

Pansy knows, of course, that people talk. Because she used to talk, too. And now . . .

“Luna,” she says, facing the other girl fully. “Can I—can you— How did you know?”

Luna gives her a curious look, then smiles a little. “It was just a feeling. I knew there was someone on the other side. I guessed it was you.”

Her breath feels ragged. “Can you show me? Just to . . . just to be sure?”

Ginny looks between them in interest, but doesn’t speak. Luna doesn’t say anything either, but she nods and reaches out for Pansy’s arm.

“It’s works both ways, you know,” she whispers, and they’re very, very close. “And it can be any sort of mark. Cuts and things.” She presses her fingernail into Pansy’s forearm, and Pansy flinches from the touch, from the sudden sharpness, from the cool feeling of Luna’s fingertip.

It leaves a small indentation when Luna lifts her hand again. Then she raises her own arm and puts it next to Pansy’s.

“Oh,” Pansy breathes.

Luna’s mark is in exactly the same spot. It _looks_ the same, and a quick brush over her own skin and then over Luna’s tells her that it _feels_ the same.

“Thank you,” Pansy whispers, not sure how to say anything else. “Thank you so much. You saved my life.”

Luna shakes her head. “I didn’t do anything. That part was all you.” She hesitates, then adds, “Draco told me what you said to him about me. He talked to me quite a bit before Harry, Ron, and Hermione came. He expressed his own gratitude to me for helping you in ways he couldn’t. It was rather sweet, really.”

Pansy blinks. “Really? He never mentioned it.”

Luna’s smile is bright, golden.

“I suppose even those we know best can still manage to surprise.”

Pansy wonders, really, if the future she once imagined can still be reached.

“I’d like to get to know you better,” Pansy says. “Maybe someday you’ll surprise me in different ways.”

Radiant, spectacular. Golden, in a different way.

“I think I’d like that,” Luna says, and, for just a moment, the future doesn’t seem so bad.

* * *

Draco stands before the Wizengamot three weeks later, right after his father has been sent back to Azkaban. Pansy’s stayed with him, mostly, since the end of the war. She’s been staying at Malfoy Manor, with her home being such an abstract concept now. She’s not even sure if they place she grew up in is still standing. She’s not sure she wants to check. Ginny and Luna have visited her out in various Muggle places, but, for the most part, she’s been helping Draco pick up the pieces, and holding off on finding her mother for as long as she can.

But, then, it doesn’t matter. Draco and Narcissa both come away from the Ministry with relief pulling their shoulders down and no penalty. Potter speaks for them, spews some story about the Deathly Hallows and Draco’s wand and Dumbledore’s death and his second to last confrontation with Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.

Still, though, Pansy’s chest feels heavy, because she knows that Lucius’s imprisonment is weighing down on Draco in all sorts of confusing ways. Some part of him is pleased, she thinks, because it’s _just_ , but another part of him screams that he shouldn’t be thinking that, that it’s _not_ fair, and family loyalty has always been important, but, then, Lucius ruined his life.

Potter approaches them after the trial, Ginny beside him, eyeing him with barely concealed concern.

“I thought you might want this,” he says to Draco, and he hands him his wand.

Draco exhales slowly and meets Potter’s eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything you’ve done.”

Pansy shifts awkwardly on her feet, but Ginny catches her eye and offers her a weary smile.

Draco takes his wand and inspects it before tucking it away safely. Potter turns to go, but Ginny grabs at his hand and Pansy blurts out, “I’m so sorry.”

He stops and turns back around, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Then he sees her, recognizes she’s there, and he shakes his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says, and Pansy’s never heard anybody sound so _tired_. “I had to hand myself over in the end, anyway.”

“But—”

“Ginny told me the things you’ve done for her. How you helped the students get along better. I don’t think you’re a bad person, Parkinson. I think you were thinking of life over large numbers of death. And you were right to do that.” He shrugs. “I don’t really see what’s wrong with that.”

 _But I wasn’t_ , she wants to say. _I was only thinking of myself._

Instead, she mutters a small, “Thank you,” and he offers her a small, exhausted smile before walking away to attend whatever other business he has.

“Still want to move to Canada?” Pansy asks Draco once Ginny and Potter have gone, drained but feeling rather positive over Draco’s “victory.”

“I’m feeling a little less inclined to run away now,” he replies, smirking. “Let’s go get some lunch or something.”

“There’s this Muggle place I went to the other day,” Pansy says. “Less attention, you know.”

He gives her an incredulous stare. “I don’t have any Muggle money, Pansy, are you mad?”

She winks. “You’ll be surprised to find I’ve been carrying quite a bit of it with me lately. I think it’s time for you to step out of your comfort zone a little bit, now that you’re a free man.”

He shoves her and laughs, and she grins back at him, and they’re on a path to change.

* * *

Ginny invites her to the Weasley’s home the next week. The Burrow, it’s called, but Pansy is hesitant to show up. Ginny tells her Luna will be there, too, as they live nearby, and she eventually accepts.

It’s strange, really, because Pansy had a very . . . _grandiose_ upbringing in comparison to Ginny. When she wanted something, she could just say it and she would receive it, whereas Ginny and her brothers couldn’t even afford school supplies.

But The Burrow has such a warm, welcoming feeling, and Pansy relaxes as Ginny shows her around a little bit.

“I appreciate it a lot more now than I used to,” Ginny confesses. “I used to want something bigger, like what the Malfoys have.”

Pansy laughs a little. “It feels so _cold_ there. This is nice. It’s comfortable. I’d take this over a Manor any day.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far to say _that_ ,” Ginny jokes, but Pansy secretly thinks her friend agrees with her.

It’s just them for about an hour, and they play a game of chess over tea before Luna arrives.

Pansy considers Luna a friend by now, but neither of them have breached the _soulmate_ idea since that first day by the lake at Hogwarts. They’re both extremely _aware_ of it, but they haven’t made any marks on each other’s skin. Pansy wonders if Luna just doesn’t feel as artistic as she once did, or if she’s not doing it because she knows Pansy will see it every time she does.

“Mum should be home soon,” Ginny observes as Luna sits next to Pansy.

“Where is everyone, anyway?”

Ginny waves a hand. “Merlin knows. Ron, Harry, and Hermione have been doing so much lately it’s hard to keep track. And Percy is probably trying to clean up some things at the Ministry. I know he still wants to work there, but . . .” She sighs and rubs at her temples. “George has been working himself to sickness since . . . And Charlie did come home, but he’s staying with Bill. Says it’s too crowded here. I kind of agree with that, if I’m being honest. And, well, I don’t _know_ where Mum and Dad are, but they’ve been running around all month. I think they’re just trying to distract themselves.”

Pansy’s heart feels caught in her throat. Ginny had very much refused to talk about _her_ loses in the war. “And you?”

Ginny frowns and sets down her cup. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Some days I forget he’s gone at all, and when I remember, it makes it feel so much worse.”

Pansy nods thoughtfully. “I did that, too.”

“You still haven’t talked to your mother, have you?”

Her hands shake slightly and she stares down into her cup, watching the little ripples of tea. “No,” she says quietly.

“Are you afraid she’ll be ashamed of you?” Luna asks and Pansy’s cheeks burn.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just . . . I’m not ready. I don’t want to yet. I don’t think she does either. If she were looking for me, I’m sure the first place she would have looked was Malfoy Manor.”

“Maybe she did,” Ginny suggests. “Maybe she was turned away.”

“What, you think Draco or Narcissa told her I wasn’t _there_?”

Ginny shrugs. “You never know.”

Pansy’s saved from replying by the opening of the door and a voice that Pansy thinks is surely Molly Weasley calls out for Ginny.

“Stay here,” Ginny tells them and then rushes to her mother.

Pansy sets down her cup with a small sigh.

“Luna, you know, if you want, we can—”

“I’m waiting for you,” Luna injects softly, placing a hand over Pansy’s. “I wouldn’t do anything you weren’t ready for.”

“I think I’m ready,” Pansy whispers, shivering from the feel of Luna’s hands, despite its warmth. “I . . . if we’re supposed to be together, then I think we should try and be together. Don’t you? I mean, we can do it more _slowly_ than that. I’m just—”

Luna presses her finger against Pansy’s lips, making a face that suggests she’s _serious_ but something about what Pansy is saying or doing is rather funny, at the same time. “Don’t get flustered,” she advises. “It attracts wrackspurts.”

Pansy furrows her eyebrows, but she can’t speak, can hardly breathe, with the way Luna’s fingers feel against her lips.

“There’s a lot of time,” she continues, and now her voice is just a whisper.

Pansy knows that, and yet.

She brings her hand up and shakily moves Luna’s. “So why waste it?” she whispers, and they’re so, so close.

Luna’s smile makes her breath catch. “I’ll wait until you’re ready,” she reminds her quietly, and Pansy can _hear_ the smile in her voice.

“I’m ready,” she breathes, and she leans down, eyes on Luna’s lips, soft and heart-shaped, and stretched into a radiant, golden smile.

And then Ginny says something loudly, and Pansy jumps back and Luna gives her an amused glance, and Ginny’s standing right in front of them, her face as red as her hair.

“Sorry,” she says, coughing. “Um, just thought you might want to join us. Mum wanted some help with dinner. We, um, have a lot of mouths to feed, you know.” She rubs at her nose. “Yeah. We’ll, um. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

She scurries away, head ducked down in embarrassment, and Pansy snorts at her retreating form. She can’t really _help it_ , even though maybe _she_ should be the embarrassed one.

But then Luna reaches for her hand and she says, “There’s a lot of time, still,” and it’s hard to think about much else.

* * *

Ginny is right when they say there are a lot of mouths to feed. Pansy counts thirteen people overall, but, then, a few of them eat a lot, and a few of them hardly eat anything. Nobody _really_ gives her a second glance, but Molly had greeted her in the kitchen with a very excitable and motherly hug, and it had taken a while for her eyes to feel less misty after that.

Molly said she was thankful for what Pansy had done for Ginny during the school year, but that was all. Maybe it was just a matter of feeling the need to latch on to people who have helped, even a little bit, because sometimes it just feels like . . . it feels like _drowning_.

Pansy can see the loss of a family member in all of these people’s eyes. George Weasley has never looked less alive. She wonders, of course, if maybe a large portion of him died when his other half did.

She can’t look at him after that.

She has an “other half,” too. Some part of her feels like she’s known Luna her entire life, as if she couldn’t live with her radiant smile, her golden being, her soft, silky words, her touch, her _everything_. If she really _had_ known Luna all her life, she couldn’t even imagine what it might be like to lose her.

After they eat, they move into the sitting room in a not-quite companionable silence. Bill, Fleur, Molly, and Arthur gravitate to one side of the room, whereas Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Pansy move to the opposite. And George doesn’t even stay.

Pansy’s heart aches for them all, in a way she wasn’t even sure she was capable of feeling.

It reminds her somewhat of being at Hogwarts again, at the start of the year. Hexes being thrown at Slytherins, Slytherins being excused for bad behaviour, curses being used on students. It was a gross, convoluted cycle, but she had Ginny had stepped up.

She wonders who will step up now.

“I should probably be going soon,” Pansy says, cutting into a somewhat awkward silence. “Narcissa’s been a little paranoid lately.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “Say hello to her for me,” he says.

Pansy starts, but then remembers that she saved his life and smiles at him, giving her assurance that she will.

“You should ask about what we talked about earlier,” Ginny tells her, a worried look in her eyes.

“What thing?” Pansy frowns.

“Your _mother_ , you idiot,” Ginny hisses. “Ask if she sent a letter or something. You should talk to her.”

Pansy blinks, then wraps her arms around herself. “I _told you_ , I don’t want to know.”

“But I think you _do_ ,” Ginny throws back, her tone a little nasty. “Don’t you remember when you pushed Malfoy? Well, I’m pushing _you_ now. She probably feels pretty lonely. And a year on the run doesn’t look nice on anybody.” She gives Harry, Ron, and Hermione a significant look, to which Harry blushes, Ron scowls at, and Hermione rolls her eyes.

She sighs. “I’ll think about it, okay? And this is a little different than with Draco, for the record.”

“Because he was guilty because he didn’t want to disappoint his father? How’s that different?”

“You don’t know what he was going through!” Pansy says, throwing her hands up. “It’s _not the same_. I told you, I’ll think about it. Now I’m going to go before you cause a _scene_ , okay?”

“Promise me,” Ginny says, grabbing at her arm as she turns to leave. “Promise me you’ll ask about it.”

Pansy throat is dry. “Fine,” she mutters. “I promise I’ll ask about it. Happy?”

Ginny lets go. “Barely satisfied, but it’ll do.”

Pansy can’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, okay. Drama queen.”

Ginny pushes her, and she stumbles a little. She turns back to glare at Ginny, but her eyes catch Luna’s instead, and Luna tilts her head slightly, but smiles, and it’s a smile that says a seed has been planted, and it’s healthy enough to grow.

She smiles back. She can’t wait to see what kind of flower it will sprout.

* * *

_I wish you would draw more_.

Pansy stares at the ceiling the next morning and waits until she hears movement from the room next to hers. She doesn’t like to be the first one awake in the manor, and she’s also not sure what she’d do without Draco. So she tries to communicate with Luna, instead.

 _I draw on different things now_.

She smiles slightly, and runs her finger gently over Luna’s writing. Underneath it, she says, _Why?_

 _I won’t do anything you aren’t ready for_.

Pansy frowns a little.

 _I miss your drawings_.

 _I can draw more often_.

She can’t help the way her pulse bounces..

 _I’d like that_ , she writes.

And, slowly, as she watches, Luna draws a small flower. A pansy, Pansy thinks, her lips twitching, and normally she hates the flower, but Luna draws it so beautifully it’s hard to even consider not liking it.

 _Thank you_ , she writes, when the lines have stopped appearing.

There is no response after that, but there’s no reason for one. They both understand, and Pansy has never been more grateful for anybody in her life.

* * *

She doesn’t know how to ask, but she doesn’t need to. Two days after having dinner with the Weasleys, Draco hands her a letter with a slightly ashamed look in his eyes, and she knows he’s read it.

_Dear Pansy,_

_I must apologize for not contacting you by now. My only child, and I can’t even send a letter to tell her I’m all right. I know you’re fine, in abstract, from a letter Narcissa sent to me a little into May. She told me about the battle at Hogwarts, and I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there. It’s cowardly of me, I know, but I’ve come to France in hopes of avoiding seeing the remnants of the war. I beg you to understand and for your forgiveness, no matter how underserving I am, and I hope you will want to see me again sometimes soon._

_Much love,_

_Acacia Parkinson._

She covers her mouth with her hand to stop the inhuman voice that rises in her throat.

“I didn’t mean to read it,” Draco tells her apologetically. “I thought it was for me, or maybe Mother. There was no name on it.”

“I don’t care,” Pansy whispers, and she reads it again, eyes misty.

“Do you want to meet with her?”

Pansy blinks furiously. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Some part of me thinks if I do I might hurt her.”

“And the other part of you?” he prompts gently, steering her into the nearest room—the dining room—and pushing her into a chair at the table.

“Misses my mother a lot,” she says, and a tear splashes against the parchment.

“I had no idea Mother sent a letter,” Draco mutters, sitting beside her and pulling the chair a little closer. “She should have told you.”

Pansy shakes her head. “I’m glad she didn’t.”

Draco blinks, surprised.

“Well, I think I would’ve been angry if she’d told me before, but now I’m grateful. I think I get why she ran away. I kind of did, too, in a sense.”

Draco is silent for a moment, then says, “Your father was brave, you know.”

Pansy smiles a little, despite the drying tears on her cheeks. “I know,” she says.

“Let’s go have some lunch,” Draco suggests. “We’ll figure out something to do about this.”

“No,” Pansy says forcefully, pushing the letter on the table. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. Let’s get lunch and we’ll talk about literally _anything_ else.”

He eyes her and then the letter curiously. “You’re just going to leave that there?”

Pansy shrugs. “Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”

Draco sighs a little bit, then stands up. “You’ve been spending too much time with the Weasleys,” he advises.

“Maybe next time I visit them, I’ll take you with me,” she suggests, grinning wickedly.

His horrified look has her cracking up until they leave the manor.

* * *

The next time she sees Luna, she asks her on a date.

Which seems so _normal_. It seems strange and backwards and it’s not even _familiar_ , but something about the anxiety that stirs in her stomach when she asks, even though they’re _soulmates_ and they’ve already almost _kissed_ , makes it feel like a really, really good thing.

They go out for dinner to a Muggle restaurant in London, and it’s nothing pricey or over-the-top. It’s just two girls eating dinner together and taking things slow, because they have all the time in the world. They talk about anything and everything, their favourite colours to their best childhood memories to their hobbies and if they still have the same inspiration and motivation to do the things they love after the war and what their parents were like when they were growing up and if it made things better or worse in the long run, and Pansy is _invested_ , can’t get enough, because Luna never stops being _fascinating_ , from her weird, probably made-up creatures to her absolutely spectacular artistry to her history and her morals and her political views.

“Listen, I know that you might have some, um, bad memories from there,” Pansy says after they’ve mostly finished eating, and Luna gives her an interested look, but she’s sure they both know what she’s asking. “But I was wondering if you wanted to come back with me, once we leave.”

Luna frowns, and Pansy’s not sure she’s ever seen that look on her face before. “I don’t know,” she says warily.

“No, it’s fine. Really. I just . . . wondered, is all.”

“The memories are bad, but there are less bad ones, too,” Luna says. “I just can’t right now. I’m sorry. Maybe next time.”

“I won’t do anything you aren’t ready for,” Pansy promises, and she really does mean it.

Luna gives her a grateful smile. “We can just walk around the city, if you want. I hear it’s rather pretty at night, but I don’t come here very often.”

“Me either,” Pansy says. “Let’s go and get lost together, then.”

Luna laughs, and it’s like angels tolling bells, a sweet sound, a soft, velvety sound on Pansy’s ears. She can’t help the wide smile on her face.

As they leave and journey slowly through London, the light from buildings and lamps illuminates Luna’s hair, makes it golden and bright, and her eyes turn to Pansy’s, and their brighter than the stars in the sky, and Pansy can’t _help it_ , so she stops and she leans forward, eyes squeezed shut, and she kisses Luna.

Luna makes a small noise of surprise, then slowly pushes her back, but she doesn’t look upset.

“I think I changed my mind,” she says softly. “Take me back to Malfoy Manor with you.”

Pansy blinks, then furrows her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Luna nods. “I believe that certain people can ward off bad memories.”

Pansy smiles down at her feet, then nods and grabs Luna’s hand to find the nearest Apparation point.

* * *

When they get there, there’s nobody else there. Pansy doesn’t stop to think about it, because by the time they’re inside, Luna’s lips are pressed against hers, and it’s not the _neatest_ kiss she’s ever had, but it’s probably the most passionate, and she’s against the nearest wall, Luna standing on her toes, head tilted up, and it feels so _easy_ to melt into each other, as if they’re the other half they always needed.

Her hands trail down Luna’s neck, but she thinks her fingers shake a bit, and Luna pulls back slightly and lets out a small puff of hair, warm against Pansy’s face.

“You’re beautiful,” Pansy breathes, and Luna _giggles_ , and then _Pansy’s_ laughing, because it’s adorable and they were just _snogging in the entrance to her best friend’s house_ and everything about this night has been something out of a dream, like floating on air, and then she pulls Luna further inside.

“I want to see the room you’re staying in,” Luna says suddenly, and Pansy raises an eyebrow at her, earning her a small roll of the eyes. “Not like that. I’m just interested in seeing some of your things is all.”

Pansy can’t help but laugh a little at the wording, but she takes her to one of _many_ guest bedrooms in the manor and opens the door grandly.

“It’s small,” Luna says, surprised.

“Well, I don’t know,” Pansy says, tilting her head a bit. “It’s pretty big to me.”

“No, I mean it’s small compared to what I imagined.” She inspects the bed sheets and then the wallpaper. “How much of your things are here?” she inquires.

Pansy shrugs. “Not much, but all I need to live. Everything I had at Hogwarts.”

Luna nods. “Show me the things you don’t need to live.”

“What, like family heirlooms and stuff?” she asks in disbelief.

“Whatever you want.” Luna smiles and fiddles with a cork necklace she’s been wearing all night that Pansy doesn’t ask about, because she’s starting to find those things about Luna rather endearing.

Pansy roots through her trunk, which she hasn’t bothered to unpack in the past month. “There’s this,” she says, holding up a necklace with an emerald pendant swaying from its chain.

“Tell me about it,” Luna prompts her, and it’s not a _command_ , but a _suggestion_ , and Pansy doesn’t think Luna’s ever talked down to anybody in her life.

“My mother gave it to me before I went to Hogwarts,” Pansy explains, running her thumb over the gemstone. “My dad gave it her for the fifth anniversary. She gave it to me because I was worried I’d forget about them while I was gone.” She grimaces slightly. “I guess I just never really wanted to let it go, and now I’m getting afraid of forgetting again.”

She passes it to Luna, who shakes her head and says, “I don’t want to touch it. The story is enough.”

Pansy hesitates slightly, but the words tumble out of mouth after just a moment, anyway. “Will you visit my mother with me? In France?”

Luna blinks, taken aback, then she says, “Why?”

“Because I can’t do it alone.”

“And you’re sure you’re ready to do it,” Luna says, and she states it like a fact.

Pansy nods. “You don’t have to, of course. I just thought that . . . she’s probably like you, is all.”

Luna fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “Okay,” she says brightly.

Pansy sets the pendant down gently and rises to sit on the bed next to Luna.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, then her lips twist slightly and she adds, “Again?”

Luna nods, and Pansy leans in, slower this time, eyes open to meet startling silver. It’s slow and gentle, soft lips against soft lips, but Pansy leans in too much and Luna falls with her back on the bed, and laughs against Pansy’s lips before Pansy deepens the kiss and crawls over Luna, straddling her.

She breaks off after a short moment, though, and whispers against Luna’s mouth, “This is the part where you need to tell me if you’re not ready.”

“Don’t stop,” Luna breathes, and then they’re kissing again, and Luna’s skin is warm beneath Pansy’s hands, and her touch causes the blonde to shiver and moan. There’s something powerful about it, about being able to reduce someone to that with a simple touch, and Luna reaches for her as if she can get closer, but they’re already so, so closer, their bodies rubbing friction against each other.

Pansy reaches a hand under Luna’s shirt, and closer her finger around the fabric to take it off when the door opens.

She tries to jump back, but her hand gets caught and her legs are wrapped around Luna’s and she curses and Luna laughs and Draco says, horrified, “Fucking— _Pansy_!” and it’s all a _mess_ , really, and she’s glad that Narcissa doesn’t seem to be nearby because it’s already bad enough already.

She disentangles herself from Luna and whirls around to glare at Draco. “Oh, so you’re just going to _stand_ there?” she snaps, fixing her top and running a quick hand through her hair.

“It’s my house!” he splutters, affronted.

“You weren’t home!”

“I am now!” He makes a frustrated noise, then sighs. “ _Fine_. How about we all just forget it happened at all? I’m leaving, but if you’re going to—er, _continue_ , at least have the decency to use a _silencing charm_ , all right?”

He slams the door on his way out, and Narcissa probably hears _that_ , Pansy thinks victoriously. She faces Luna and they both double over in laughter.

“You know, I have theory about all this,” Luna says after they’ve both quieted.

“Yeah?” Pansy stifles a grin. “Well, don’t be shy, then. What is it?”

And she launches into an explanation about some kind of creature that are very, very small and cause bad luck that Pansy can’t be half-arsed to remember the name of. But she smiles fondly and snuggles against Luna’s side and listens to her voice, melodic and excitable, and she thinks the flower’s already blossomed.

* * *

Two days later, Pansy wakes late in the night, drenched in sweat and unable to catch her breath. It’s getting _better_ , of course it is, but she still remember it all so _vividly,_ and some part of her remembers feeling hopeless and wanting to see it _end_ , because it seemed impossible to keep going.

She’s shaking as she stands and runs a hand through her hair, pacing the room in some silly attempt to calm her breathing. She can’t help but wonder if Luna will know to help her through this, some day, but for now . . .

She closes her door behind her softly and tiptoes to Draco’s, before easing it open slightly. He’s always been such a peaceful sleeper, she thinks, wrapped into a tight ball with his bedcovers still neatly made. A stab of jealousy pokes at her chest, because she has nightmares and he doesn’t, but, then, he’s dealing with his own demons, after all. Pansy sure she’s heard somewhere that no two people react to trauma in the same way.

She shakes him awake as gently as she can, but her hands are still shaking and she thinks she may have poked too hard, but he opens his eyes and yawns, then takes on look at her and says, “Oh, Pans,” before moving over to make room for her beside him.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks, pushed against her side, and she feels a bit like a little kid again, being questioned by her mother after a bad dream about something silly like getting lost in a never-ending maze. The thought makes her throat swell up further and she can only shake her head.

“If you change your mind”—he yawns again—“just wake me up.”

And, within seconds, he’s fallen easily back into sleep.

She listens to the rise and fall of her chest, then traces the outline of the flower Luna had drawn the other day and tries not to think about the grotesque image of her father dying _over and over and over again_.

At some point, she falls asleep too, and sometimes it’s easy to forget they’ve been through hell back, but it’s these kind of moments that makes her remember.

And sometimes, she really, really doesn’t want to remember.

* * *

 

The next week, she and Luna take a Portkey to Bordeaux, France. Acacia’s parents owned a home there, but as she’d married from France into an English family, she’d never really gone back. However, the house and all of her parents’ assets had gone to her, as the sole heir. Pansy’s sure that the Death Eaters could have found the out easily. She thinks her mother only recently starting living in the house again.

Luna holds her hand before they grab the old steel bucket they’re given from Ministry officials. Realistically, they could have done this themselves, but Pansy doesn’t _actually_ know where they’re going. Narcissa gave her the abstract location, and the Ministry tied the rest of the loose ends up.

But, now, they stand before the door to the house her mother’s in, and Pansy’s too afraid to knock, so Luna gives her a quick glance then does it for her.

It takes only a few seconds before the door swings open, Acacia standing with her pointed at them. And then she drops it and she engulfs Pansy in a hug, and she still _smells_ like home, but Pansy knows, deep down, that home doesn’t _really_ exist anymore.

“I missed you so much,” Acacia whispers against Pansy’s hair.

“Me too,” Pansy says, and they pull away and Acacia invites them inside.

“Mum, this is Luna,” Pansy introduces once they reach the sitting room, but her voice quivers. “Luna Lovegood.”

“What a delight to meet you, Luna,” Acacia says, and kisses her cheek. “I’m Acacia Parkinson.”

“Likewise,” Luna says politely, offering her a brilliant smile.

“I’m sorry I didn’t send you a letter,” Pansy says, and her voice is small and maybe a tiny bit broken.

Acacia looks at her with the utmost sadness, a kind of deeply ingrained despair, a tear in the heart too deep to really fix.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”

Pansy can’t meet her mother’s eyes. “I don’t blame you for running.”

Acacia is silent for a moment, then she says, soft as a feather, “I wish I were braver, though.”

“Don’t we all,” Pansy mutters, then shakes her head. “I think it’s okay if you aren’t brave. You don’t have to be perfect.”

Acacia reaches out for her hand, and she knows they shake, but her mother’s are warm and soft and _familiar_ , and Pansy lifts her gaze to meet hers.

“Your father wanted the best for us. He knew it was coming for a while, but he stood up because he didn’t want to live a broken existence.”

“I don’t blame him, either,” Pansy whispers. “I don’t blame you. I don’t blame myself. Nothing that happened was our fault. Amends have been made where amends needed to be made. I’m going to try and change, from here on out.”

Pansy glances at Luna and Acacia follows her gaze. Her eyes soften and she makes a small noise of recognition, of understanding.

“I’m glad you’re not afraid anymore, love.”

She smiles at her mother, and things aren’t perfect yet, but they’re getting better, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, perfect doesn’t need to mean contentment.

“Me too,” she says, and the future is brighter and brighter every day.

* * *

After that day, Pansy puts things behind her. She moves into a flat in the middle of London with Luna and they watch they city’s lights beneath the moonlight every night, and Pansy’s friends become Luna’s friends and Luna’s friend become Pansy’s friends, and from the seed it feels an eternal life has bloomed before them, and maybe it’s not entirely about soulmate magic, either.

Pansy stops hiding Luna’s drawing on her own skin and shows them off with pride, to her friends’ endless amusement. Her mother and her visit more often. She gets to know Luna’s father and she’s never felt like she belongs somewhere more than she does when she comes home to Luna, painting a picture or cleaning their flat or doing typical Luna things, like searching under the couch for something neither of them can see. And her kisses feel like heaven and her touch feels like home and her smiles are golden, and this isn’t the future Pansy _imagined_ , but it’s the one she wants.

And, really, she couldn’t be any happier with it if she tried.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry the ending is a little rushed, but this was beginning to get away on me and i didn't want to make it any longer than it is. as always, comments/kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
